Part 2– The Warning
The door clicked shut.
Amelia didn't move.
She stood there in her robe, the folder still in her hands, her pulse roaring like subway tracks under her skin. Every instinct screamed at her to chase him down, demand more—but her legs wouldn't listen. They were too busy remembering that photo. The one with her father, the syringe, and the woman with her mouth open in a silent scream.
She didn't recognize the woman.
But some part of her did.
The sound of the city returned, faint through the sealed window: a distant honk, the swell of a siren, the thud of bass from some rooftop party. The world was still turning.
Inside her apartment, time had stopped.
She dropped the folder on the floor and sank into the couch. Her robe parted slightly, but she didn't bother to fix it. Her skin felt wrong. Prickly. Like something had been stitched under it.
She pressed her palms to her face, inhaled.
Don't sleep with him again.
Too late.
She had. More than once. And every time felt like drowning. Slow, sweet, and terrifying. Dorian had this way of touching her like he was looking for something inside her. Not just pleasure. Not control.
Something deeper.
Something specific.
She grabbed her phone off the table. No new texts. No missed calls.
She scrolled back to the anonymous number from earlier.
He'll kill you before you find the truth.
She typed a reply.
Who are you? What is Project Ebony?
Delivered. No read receipt.
A chill passed over her skin again. She looked up.
The front door was locked now.
She hadn't touched it.
Amelia stood slowly, walking back toward it. She tried the knob.
Click. It was deadbolted.
She backed away, breath catching.
The window by the fire escape was cracked open.
And she knew—without logic or evidence—that Calder never touched it.
Whatever this was, it wasn't just men playing power games and hiding secrets. It was older. Deeper. Like a curse her father signed off on before she was even born.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number.
Check the bite.
She blinked.
Then she ran—straight to the bathroom.
The mirror was foggy, though she hadn't used the shower. She wiped it clean with shaking fingers, turned, and pulled the robe down off her shoulder.
There it was.
Faint. Red. Raised.
A mark, right where Dorian had bit her in the file room. But it wasn't just a bruise.
It was shaped. Like a symbol.
Almost... branded.
She leaned closer.
It pulsed.
Moved.
Her phone buzzed again.
It's already in you.